Night, Subdued
by Azaisya
Summary: Celebrimbor drops into Annatar's rooms for a late night talk, bringing his aunt's advice and his own conclusions. Oneshot, gen, brief mentions of violence.


**This is . . . extremely short. I have a few very specific headcanons for the whole Annatar string of events and really wanted to write them down. This was the only bit I was able to articulate but! I hope to write the relationship between Celebrimbor and Narvi next.**

 **Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the locations mentioned below.**

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Annatar felt Celebrimbor's presence a mere second before the elven lord knocked on his door.

Annatar hastily pulled a few sketches of his rings over his desk. "Come in."

Celebrimbor pushed open the door and quickly entered. Feigning surprise, Annatar set down his stick of charcoal. "Celebrimbor!" He smiled welcomingly, twisting his entire body around to face Celebrimbor head-on.

The elven lord wore a lovely robe with a braided belt, and his hair was bound out of his eyes with his customary Fëanorian braids. As always, Annatar was mildly shocked by how _Dwarven_ Celebrimbor dressed. Rather than the delicate, elegant styles most elves favored, Celebrimbor had fallen head over heels for the sharp, angular patterns so distinctive of the Naugrim. Celebrimbor stopped several feet from Annatar, twisting his fingers together. He had nice hands, Annatar reflected. They were long and pale and seemed to be constantly in motion.

Annatar wondered how they would look cut at the wrist and hung above the mantle.

Celebrimbor smiled briefly, lips twitching into an anxious smile as his brow furrowed. "May we speak, Annatar?"

Annatar allowed a flash of concern to cross his features, a hint of anxiety, of affection, of gentility. "Of course. Is anything the matter?"

Celebrimbor dropped his hands, but immediately started fidgeting with the strands of his hair that framed the fine features of his face. "My aunt believes that you—" He stopped suddenly, and Annatar's smile froze on his lips, poison filling his mouth as he recalled the golden-silver hair of Celebrimbor's aunt. _Artanis_. He could practically pluck her warnings from Celebrimbor's mind.

 _He's dangerous, Tyelpë. He's a liar, a thief, a snake, (a wolf). He brings nothing but lies and his gifts are little but cheap tin gilded in gold foil._

But Celebrimbor merely said, ". . . wear a guise. She urged me to turn you aside and to scorn your gifts."

Annatar's blood ran cold through his veins, but he ensured that his smile faded naturally, as though genuinely alarmed and dismayed by Celebrimbor's words. "Artanis is great among out peoples," he said diplomatically, and he watched as Celebrimbor's fidgeting intensified. A subtle smile flickered across his lips, a subtle impression of hesitant hope. "And yet _you_ are the head of the craftsmen in this city."

Celebrimbor smiled briefly, a touch apologetically, and began pacing. "I am hesitant to disregard her advice, for she has never steered me ill before. But—" He paused again, his whirl of motion suddenly freezing as his eyes—brilliantly amber—bored into Annatar's tranquil gold. "—I believe you are not who you say."

Annatar dropped his gaze demurely and tucked his hands into his sleeves, fingers locking around the hilt of his dagger.

Not, of course, that he needed it to defend himself. But he rather fancied the idea of Celebrimbor lying on the ground, those delectable lips parted in a shocked gasp, a blade buried hilt-deep in his chest. Annatar briefly considered the benefits of smearing the skin around those bright amber eyes with blood.

Celebrimbor _did_ look so good in crimson.

A touch of regret and fear entered his voice, and he began, "Celebrimbor—"

Celebrimbor shook his head, expression suddenly painfully earnest. "You don't have to tell me," he said simply, "I care little what your true name is. My kin turned against each other for lack of trust, and I'll not see their Doom brought to Eregion." His fingers resumed their fidgeting, twisting the rings that adorned his fingers. Annatar just stared, unsure how to put into words the sheer _stupidity_ that Fëanor's grandson was displaying. A smile crossed Celebrimbor's face, sweet and sincere and genuine. "I believe your intent, Annatar," he said finally, "I believe you wish to make Middle Earth better." He shrugged weakly and his fingers, finding a loose thread in his sleeve, began to pull at it. "I believe you want to help. And . . . I want to help you."

Annatar dropped his hands limply into his lap and, with genuine shock, merely said, "You have my thanks." Celebrimbor's smile became blindingly bright, and Annatar gathered himself enough to smile—excitement, warmth, _gratitude_ —in response. "I promise that I am here only to learn, and to teach what I may."

Celebrimbor's smile only widened, and Annatar marveled at his naïveté. "Good! After all, Ost-in-Edhil is a city of craftsmen." His fingers paused in their fidgeting to extract one of his rings, and he showed the band to Annatar with a flourish of long, pale fingers. The ring was designed to be solid, strong enough not to break despite the bearer's active tendencies, but it possessed the visual fluidity of water flowing over cobblestones. Annatar had to admit that it was well made, though he would have chosen something less ostentatious. "This was crafted within the halls of my guild, the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. Perhaps tomorrow I can show our forges to you?"

Annatar stood, as if eager, and laid a hand languidly on Celebrimbor's shoulder, the warmth of his fingertips brushing as if accidentally against the bare skin between Celebrimbor's neck and the gold of his collar. He smiled, alluringly, and said, "You can show me _anything_."

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 **Review.**


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